


nowhere to be found

by puchuupoet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-10
Updated: 2010-08-10
Packaged: 2017-10-11 17:42:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/114967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puchuupoet/pseuds/puchuupoet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pamela doesn't know how she got out of that town alive, but she did. Now she's scraping her life back together, trying to move beyond the past. General spoilers through s5, AU stemming from 4.15 "Death Takes a Holiday"</p>
            </blockquote>





	nowhere to be found

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd, and something I'm filing in the rough draft folder. Another in the "IDEK pile". From the following prompt: "PAMELA/GABE", "NOW YOU'RE JUST FUCKING WITH ME". I can never turn down a challenge like that ♥ For [](http://cecilylee.livejournal.com/profile)[**cecilylee**](http://cecilylee.livejournal.com/)

  
Pamela senses his presence before he even knocks at the front door. She's in her armchair, fingers paused over the braille, trembling as the sudden cold washes over her. She waits, breath heavy in her ears, sees if she can wait him out.

She can't though, twenty minutes later and the doorbell's ringing for the third time. She sets the book to the side, makes her way to the front door. The feeling's more intense here, harder sharper thicker, but the longer she leans against the door frame, the more she can feel it start to recede. Pull away and clear the air, til Pamela can breath deeply without shuddering.

Even though the knock is softer this time, it still catches her off-guard, reverberating through the wood and down her bones. "Fuck you," she spits out, twisting around to double check the salt lines on the windows, the coarse grains sticking to her fingertips.

"Not really what I came here for, sweetheart." She can't place the voice but knows the intent, that soft slick comfort ready to convince her to open it all up. Pamela instinctively bristles at the sound of it, that cloying sweetness that sticks in her head. There's a power trembling underneath it, wanting to get out, something that keeps her from throwing it all to the wind and opening the door.

"What'd you come here for then?" She aims to keep him talking, keep him thinking about anything other than his real goal, whatever that may be. Pamela reaches out out of habit, grasping at the back of one of the chairs as she moves through the kitchen. She's reassured that all the sills are covered, bringing her fingers to her lips each time, the salty tang trickling down her throat.

"I'm here to talk to you, person to person, eye to eye, as it were." There's a dark glibness tossed about, a layer of protection that makes her laugh first and wonder second.

Pamela counts out three steps from where she is by the sink, over to her left and then two drawers down, bumping past the lighters to reach for the crayons. Grabs the longest one with her left hand as she reaches out with her right, tracing over the sigils on the kitchen wall. She starts to fill in all the gaps, all the spaces worn away by cooking grease and time and heat.

"Whatever it is you're selling, I'm not buying." She grits her teeth when her fingers pass over one of the larger sigils, one of the foundation pieces holding it all together. Her fingers are dipping down near the edges, almost running smooth against the kitchen wallpaper and that's not good.

Bobby had laughed at her when she had dragged him to the art store, had hung back when she started questioning the employees: _how hardy, how high, how long will it all last_. He had helped her out at first, fingers wrapped around her wrist as he guided her through the sigils they had agreed upon. She had known most of them, save for the angelic barriers, and those were the ones she had insisted on.

Those were the ones he had helped her with, lightly grasping her wrist with one hand, the other ending up on her waist, her back pressed against his belly, an odd-reverse dance through her kitchen and living room. She could feel the way he hesitated, so close, and she didn't push things when he finally dropped his head down to the curve of her shoulder. Pamela could feel his body shake, no matter how hard he tried to hide it, and she was finally the one turning around, clutching at the nape of his neck as she buried her face in his shirt, making soft soothing noises as he apologized for it all, his body trembling.

"Not selling anything this time, sweetheart." And now the voice is deeper, shaking her foundation and rattling the dishes. "I'm here to apologize."

"Bullshit. I know your type." Pamela knows better than to get sucked in by doe eyes and apologies. That's what got her like this in the first place, helping others out, and now she's scrabbling around for her crayons and acrylics cause she can't see any more, thank you very goddamn much.

"Do you now?" And the door's opening, a strong gust of wind that Pamela can feel on her face, fluttering her shirt back and dammit, he shouldn't be able to do that, not with what she has protecting her. She presses harder on the tiles, the crayon oozing out beneath her grip, and she takes a moment to run her fingers over it. That'll have to do for now. She moves to the next sigil, on the other side of the kitchen, except there's a crackle in the air and a hand reaching out to grab her shoulder.

"The sigils..." she manages to gasp out, before his thumb strokes over her shoulder and she can't fight it anymore, just stands there as he moves in closer.

"They're meant for my younger brothers, you know. The douchebags who can't control their power and leave you like this." She's already flinching back when his thumb brushes against her cheek, and there's an unexpected warmth in the gesture.

"Don't tell me, you're different, right? Sweet and sensitive and loves long walks on the beach." She drops the crayon on the counter before bracing herself against it, surprised that she's able to move that much. Granted, her experience with angels is dark and limited, but this one leaves her mind whirring and questioning.

He huffs out a dark laugh before dropping his hand from her face. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, sure."

Pamela can hear him walking around the kitchen, eight steps one direction, turning around the table and heading back towards her. She can lean against the counter, stand straight up, but can't move away. It's a passive aggressive restraint that's pissing her off.

"Why me?" She hears him stop moving, waits two three four beats before he continues walking towards her, sharp and determined.

"Like I said, my brothers are assholes at times, especially with their powers. Especially Castiel." She can feel his eyes on her when she flinches at the name, and she's angry it's still having that effect on her. "I wanted to apologize for that," he repeats, and she almost believes the softness in his voice. Wishes that she could completely, that she could let herself fall for him.

"I want you out of here." Pamela stands tall, tells herself that if it comes to blows, she could take him, powers be damned. She can feel him move closer, his power contained and then suddenly she can feel the heat rising, the flush spreading through her skin.

"You haven't let me say I'm sorry yet." And the voice is close, oh so close, and she can feel her whole body screaming at her to move away, to run. She tilts her head instead, her nose brushing up against his hair and he smells clean, freshly showered, and she's thrown for another loop.

She doesn't realize she's starting to tip forward til his hands are on her waist, and the touch has her jerking back, a burning similarity so close to what Castiel had done to her, that burning rush that had started at her fingertips, raced through her and had engulfed her eyes.

He releases her immediately, heels muffled on the tiles, moving back and away. She doesn't know how long it's been before she raises her head, and despite everything she knows she's staring directly at him.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, and there's a sharp crinkle, abrasive in the silence, and she can tell something's being dropped on the counter next to her. The scent hits her right as the door slams shut, and it almost feels as if the gaps in the doorway have been sealed, the way the room heats up with security.

Pamela waits, whispering incantations until she's sure that whatever that bastard left her isn't going to rob her of her hearing or taste or give her a goddamn tail. She's cautious, reaching out with splayed fingers til they brush against the stiff plastic.

She digs in deeper, fingers crushing petals and stems and tiny decorative berries that don't mean shit to her. Til her fingers are purple and red and stained, the air heady with the stench of preserved flowers, the same smell that came from the roses Jesse used to bring her.

Pamela grasps and digs and twists, til the flowers are shredded and the stems weeping green, til she's satisfied there's nothing there to haunt her tonight when she goes to bed. She crouches down, reaches to her left eight inches til her fingertips reach the large yellow bowl, ribbed on the outside and she brings it over to the sink.

She fills it to just enough, so that when she sweeps the battered bouquet into it, there's enough water for it all. She waits a beat before bringing it back to the living room with her, her heart still beating hard, her head still clouded by the scent of his shampoo.


End file.
